


On Trials and Tribulations

by corviine



Series: Lives to be Lived [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Amputation, Amputee!Vic, Angst, Fluff, It's a mixed bag with this one, M/M, Rehabilitation, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 16:00:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/corviine/pseuds/corviine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Victor and Sherlock have known one another for years, and been officially together for the majority. </p><p>Mere months after Victor's impromptu proposal, an injury befalls Victor which has the potential to change both of their lives completely, despite anything they might try to do.</p><p>Life, however, has a tendency to go on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Splitting this into chapters for my own convenience, despite the fact it's all written and I just have to read it through and format it for here.

The engagement had been spur of the moment, when Victor first thought of it. Otherwise, it never would have happened; the very idea of asking Sherlock for marriage was daunting. He was nothing close to the type.

Except, that wasn’t quite true, as Victor discovered.

The assignment was months long and he ran on adrenaline alone for at least the last week of it, while sleep fell to the wayside in favour of getting his job done as well as possible. A matter of balance, and besides, he had become used to the irregular sleeping patterns that tended to come with the job.

He became used to the nightmares he was loathe to speak about, that had him waking with a start even now. They were mentioned once, in the quiet of a grey night when Sherlock had watched and waited, and Victor had been unable to lie his way out of it. He had refused to speak of it again, and for once, the wish had been respected entirely. Misery did indeed love company, but a problem shared was merely a problem that would go on to worry more people than just the one.

Adrenaline, a fear of losing Sherlock that had only increased, and a split second decision led to what Victor would consider one of the worst impromptu proposals he could have imagined.

He hadn’t even been on one knee; he had just pulled Sherlock close and asked-- no, _rambled_ in a frantic whisper to him about marriage, and legalities, and the idea of staying together, and the fact that of _course_ , it was overly sentimental. And when he had pulled back, Sherlock had looked at him for a long moment as if he was quite mad.

He now suspected that the man had been attempting to process it, or something along those lines, while saying nothing. Perhaps he had meant to say something-- Molly had filled him in on Sherlock’s speech at the wedding, and the reaction to being asked something about weddings seemed pretty similar.

Victor’s mind wandered in the silence, to the field of semantics, and the meanings of his own hurried words, and whether they got across the point he was trying to make--

_I don’t want to lose you. I want you to continue to be mine, William, ‘til death do us part, whenever that may be, and however soon, considering both our positions. I know that you are already mine, but I want it to be indisputable, and I love you. I know it’s just a gesture, but that doesn’t render it worthless. Not to me._

Later, Victor felt rather like he had been a rash idiot and made a fool of himself, considering that the both of them were unharmed and there was really no need for such a reaction to seeing Sherlock again, even if it was for the first time in months.

He was a professional, all too used to the idea that he might not come home one day, and he knew that even his connections were dangerous. He could do what was needed, though there were nights when guilt and sorrow over those lives he had taken would overwhelm him, but he was still efficient and did his job. But then, it came to Sherlock, and he found himself in a mess over the idea that he might well leave him, though it would never be deliberately.

But he had said yes, and that rather overshadowed everything else.

Sherlock Holmes had agreed to marry him, and had grinned like he had just been presented with a fresh corpse, and it was more than Victor could have hoped for.

* * *

The date was set for June, after some consideration. More consideration on Victor’s part, and influenced somewhat by conference with Molly and Lestrade, whom he had decided would be the best people to help. They had known Sherlock for a long while, albeit not so long as Victor himself, and, well. Victor wasn’t above excited talk about the wedding, whereas some other people seemed less keen on it.

Sherlock had a case-- serial killer, his _favourite_ , as he had told Victor one night when he arrived home, by filling the flat with glass (at least there was a sheet down too) and exclaiming something about the culprit the moment Victor walked through the door, and apparently completed whatever effect said opening of the door was intended to have. Victor decided not to ask, but did listen to Sherlock intently while he went on about the abundance of smashed glass, and the fact that it was ‘truly _beautiful_ , Victor, you should have seen it, it’s an art, I tell you’-- and was therefore otherwise occupied.

They had found long ago that Sherlock could run off on his cases without much in the way of warning, and if Victor had the time and energy for it, he knew that he could find Sherlock and lend a helping hand. And he did, at times, when there was little to do or he had a few weeks downtime-- and it was exquisitely interesting.

The planning went slowly, of course, considering the fact that Victor had his job to attend to, as did Sherlock himself, and they were both busy. It began to take shape all the same-- the venue was booked, items ordered, fittings attended to, rings bought. He had decided to do things as much in advance as possible, and attempt to get time off at the correct point.

By the time November came around, most things had been planned, more of them with Sherlock’s help than not. Victor took reassurance from that fact, at the very least.

Sherlock also showed him how to make swans out of napkins. It was, indeed, an educational experience, right up until the point where Victor got too frustrated with the way the two sides would always end up uneven when he tried, and had settled for pushing Sherlock into a pile of swans (now crushed) and kissing him soundly instead. It was far easier, and he could leave the folding of such things to Sherlock, if the need arose.

It did, admittedly, leave Sherlock feeling mildly frustrated-- partly because of the swans, and partly because Mrs Hudson brought biscuits and Victor got off him rather abruptly, thus spoiling the moment. A great disappointment indeed.

But it was coming together, and that gave Victor hope that it would actually happen.

* * *

Life came to a standstill later that month, for both Sherlock and Victor.

Victor went missing.

It was always a possibility, of course, that something would go wrong while he was on an assignment, and he could end up out of contact for long periods of time, unable to reach anyone, or be reached himself. It was always a possibility that his death could occur, or that he would return alive, but changed.

While it was always a _possibility_ , it was one that they became accustomed to over time, and the full meaning of it did not hit until the situation arose.

Victor was missing, no one could contact him, and whether he was alive or not was in question.

Nothing Sherlock could do-- including storming into Mycroft’s office reeking of cigarette smoke and demanding that he be found, and engaging in a one-sided shouting match that merely ended in his going very quiet, and his brother talking to him in a subdued, matter-of-fact tone with some cadence in it that gave away to Sherlock that he had no clearer idea where Victor was than Sherlock himself did-- could change the fact, or bring him back sooner.

Instead, he spent two full days at John and Mary’s place, though he refused to speak for much of the time; he knew that Victor would be happier with him there and avoiding temptation, as well as being looked after by people who cared about him.

* * *

One and a half weeks with no word, before Mycroft first texted Sherlock. There was little in the way of explanation, merely the name of a hospital, and a warning-- Victor’s injuries were severe, but he was stable, and recovery was possible. Sherlock itched for more details, but the texts of demand that he fired back in rapid succession were met with a digital silence that only frustrated him further.

     Victor, injured: permanently? Possible, but recovery was possible. In time?  
     Query; Victor, questioned: psychological impact possible, nightmares, things Sherlock did not know how to fix.  
     Query; Victor, accident: involvement of others? Not his fault.  
     Victor, stable: will be safe.  
     Victor, hospital  
     Victor  
     Vic

Structure dissolved in worry, and there was but one thing on his mind-- getting there quickly was of the utmost importance, and discovering what had happened, too. Data, sentimentality, sensitivity. He wondered if he could achieve all three, or whether all thoughts of some would disappear when he got there.

Ten minutes. He counted them off in his head as he got nearer.

 


	2. Chapter 2

It had all been explained. Irreparable damage, limited options, best functionality eventually, recovery possible, amputation, prosthetics, bilateral transfemoral--

Yet it still felt like mere white noise. Victor could sit and look for as long as he liked, at the space in the bed which should be more than flat sheets, where his legs were supposed to be but were, quite clearly, not. He could do that, and it would make no difference to just how real all of this felt. Perhaps it was simply too much to process, and would take time-- perhaps he did not want to process it.

The feeling did not help. He knew that there was nothing there, logically, but when he was still, it felt just like it always had. It was so easy to forget if he was not looking, and it only made it worse; when he looked back, he remembered all over again. White noise and realisation, too many times over. It couldn’t be fair.

Things were to change, now-- there would be no choice in the matter. He had lost something vital, something that made life how it was-- he had been informed of such, though in kinder words.

His job, of course, he could not keep. The flat, 221B, could hardly be kept either; there was no way he was going to get up those steps day after day. Sherlock-- _oh, Sherlock_ \-- he could not predict. He was not shallow, but he was practical. Victor would hardly be of use this way. Sherlock would surely become frustrated, and that was something Victor was loathe to inflict when there were other possibilities.

That didn’t mean he wanted to let it happen. The last thing he wanted was to lose Sherlock-- the last thing he wanted was to be useless.

****  


* * *

Sherlock tended to arrive in a flurry of movement, coat, cigarette smoke and drama in situations like this. This time was no exception; he wasted no time in barging into the ward Victor was on, despite the protestations of the nurse in the hallway, and Victor could hear him all along the row, evidently taking glances at each bed in turn, until he found the one containing Victor himself. He was at the end of the ward, and had a window, which meant he had spent the last half hour watching a woman trying to drag her children across the car park, with the flimsy blue privacy curtain drawn.

He was watching expectantly when Sherlock arrived, something calm in his expression, though his heart hammered in his chest and his hands shook slightly. They were pressed against the covers, however, and no one would see. Supposedly. One never could tell with Sherlock Holmes.

The quick assessment was obvious, to Victor at least. Sherlock noticed easily, and he would not be able to delude himself. Victor’s own tense smile betrayed his nerves, despite his attempts when Sherlock had come in, and Sherlock’s expression betrayed next to nothing.

He was very quiet, for another few long moments, and in Victor’s mind he could not help but remember the proposal, and the way that he had looked then, the way that he had gone deadly quiet and in those moments, Victor had feared what would happen next. There were so many possibilities, and all seemed intent on running through his mind at once, while Sherlock merely stood, gaze on the empty space beneath covers, though it slowly dragged up to take in Victor’s expression.

It was Victor who spoke first, worried, wondering. “William?”

That seemed to start Sherlock out of his reverie; the name was one that only Victor used for him. Perhaps that helped, but Victor was unable to truly tell. His mind wandered for a moment, to the idea that to truly find out he would have to conduct an experiment, and it would be impossible to recreate the situation perfectly. He had already lost both legs, after all; couldn’t really do that kind of thing again. There was something darkly amusing about the idea, and he decided to blame the painkillers.

Sherlock crossed the space between them, and seated himself on the end of Victor’s bed, quite determinedly watching his expression. “Your legs never were my favourite part of you anyway.”

Oh, and there was something in that that made Victor laugh, and he was incredibly grateful for-- everyone else offered pity, questions of _are you okay_ and insipid stupidity, but Sherlock? No, that was just like him, and it was perfect.

“And I’m shorter than you,” he answered, a smile that was still so obviously tainted colouring his expression. “You can tower over me in a superior manner.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “My first priority, of course.”

“Should be, too. Important thing to have in this world.” And yes, the humour was terribly self-deprecating at that, he was aware. But it was better than morbidity and crying in Sherlock’s arms, right? He wasn’t entirely sure, but he was hoping that it was somewhat better.

The detective didn’t answer for a while, scrutinising Victor’s expression instead, and making him wonder precisely what he saw there. Finally, he did speak, a little more hesitantly and more seriously. “So long as you’re alive, it’s all right.”

Victor pressed his lips into a hard line; it was not all right. He knew that. And he wasn’t sure it would be again.

****  


* * *

Conversation was easier in the dark. Sherlock had refused to leave that night, and Victor did not want to sleep. They lay side by side, the positioning careful on both their parts, and Victor watched his outline.

“I can feel you breathing,” he said eventually, and the smallest of smiles coloured his expression when Sherlock stopped doing just that for thirty seconds.

“I think you prefer it,” Sherlock answered dryly, once he started again.

“Oh, you know. How else you you blow up celebratory balloons?” Sherlock gave him a somewhat bemused look, but it was lost in the dark, and instead he huffed out a soft little breath that seemed to indicate it well enough for Victor to understand.

“Anyway…” It was Victor who continued, when Sherlock did not respond and the silence stretched too long. “One of us has to.”

Sherlock’s posture tensed a moment. “What do you mean?”

“I-- nothing, I suppose. Just…” A soft sigh. “If I’d not come back.”

“It’s irrelevant.”

“It _isn’t_ \-- I might not have. It was a close thing and you know it--”

“But you are _here_ , Victor, and you’re not going anywhere.”

Another moment of silence, and a grimace twisting at Victor’s lips that was not clear enough to be registered with the lights dimmed so.

“That’s the problem.”

Sherlock’s chest tightened, frozen hand constricting around his lungs, and this time his loss of breath was far less voluntary. He could not mean-- _oh_ , but he could, and while it was but a possibility, it was ever so present-- common, even. “Victor, you can’t--”

“Not what I meant---- I-- sorry.” Not that there wasn’t a part-- no, he wouldn’t go there. Not now. Not when Sherlock had only just managed to get him back, not when they were supposed to be happy at the reunion, not when there was supposed to be something _good_ in the world just because Victor’s life had not been cut short there. Except, it had been, had it not? This was not his life. Some mix up, surely. “I can’t _do_ anything, Will. _Go_ anywhere. _Be_ \--”

“You are not useless.” It came out harsher than Sherlock had intended it to, but it did serve to silence Victor for a few moments, while Sherlock went on. “You are not, and never will be. Entirely impossible. This is a drawback, yes, but you are both capable and determined. I don’t believe that you would just give up that easily. I _refuse_ to lose you to your own inability to realise that this is not something which must take everything you value from you. Won’t do it. You’re not the only one who needs people, I-- _It won’t happen_.”

Prolonged silence, before Victor pulled himself closer and pressed his face lightly into the other man’s shoulder. “I just don’t know what to do, Sherlock. I don’t know _how_.”

Sherlock sighed softly, and tried once again for a feeble humour. “I’m a genius, and you’re not so dire yourself. We’ll work it out.”

He hoped. They had to. The alternative could not even be entertained.

* * *

“Stay,” Victor whispered the next evening, when Sherlock had made to leave for the night. It was soft and pathetic, and he hated that he sounded like he was pleading.

It stopped Sherlock in his tracks, however, and there was no way he could refuse. He seated himself back on the edge of the bed and took Victor’s hand in his own, while the other man appeared instantly apologetic.

There was a dual meaning to the request that became only too clear when Victor continued speaking, and made Sherlock shake his head even as he spoke.

“You don’t have to,” he added quickly, though he tightened his grip on Sherlock’s hand. “You don’t have to stay at all, if you don’t want to.”

The last part was barely audible, murmured into the fading light as an offering to Sherlock. _If this is too much for you, you can leave. I wouldn’t expect you to stay and be forced into the role of carer._ He continued before Sherlock could speak, words rushed and quiet.

“I know this situation isn’t good, and I would understand. If you didn’t want to. It’s going to change things, and you’ll be terribly bored, I’m sure, and I’d just be a burden to you at the moment. And you’re brilliant, so-- there’s no sense in dragging other people down with me, is there?”

Victor’s voice had gone pathetically quiet again, and hopeless. It took Sherlock only a moment to move closer, press gentle kisses to his cheek and temple, then to his forehead and chastely against his lips. “Vic,” he murmured, in just as quiet a tone as his lover had used. “I’m not going anywhere. No matter what. I won’t just abandon you because of this. I’ll be here, if you want me, and for as long a time as I am allowed.”

Victor closed his eyes and let out a shuddering sigh that betrayed the emotion he was struggling to keep beneath the surface, and nodded slightly as he squeezed Sherlock’s hand a little tighter. “Sorry. I--”

“I know,” Sherlock promised, and pulled Victor gently into his arms, enfolding him in warmth and a familiar scent mixed with cigarette smoke. He relaxed but a fraction. “But I’m not going anywhere.”

Sherlock toed off his shoes and tugged the covers up over them, holding Victor securely until he fell back asleep.

Victor wasn’t sure that he had ever felt more relieved.

* * *

 

Two weeks were then spent with Victor still not home, and Sherlock visiting-- and Victor’s mood being predictably morbid.

It was a matter of use, and the fact that now, he was not useful to anyone. He could do little, and the wounds from the surgery were still healing, so there was hardly anything he could do to attempt to regain some functionality. It was a torture of stillness; he did not have the upper body strength at the moment to efficiently lift himself into a wheelchair, and it wasn’t as if there was anywhere to go at that point.

There seemed little point in his survival at all, at times-- such thoughts were never shared; he knew that Sherlock would object vehemently, and everyone else would keep an even closer eye on him if they deemed him suicidal. He drifted between a terrible numbness that rendered him incapable of feeling like the situation was his own at all, feeling like he had any control over it or himself, feeling anything full stop, and a grey depression that blanketed the world and drained the colour from all that he cared about.

He was informed that it was common, and most amputees would experience some form of depression at times like these-- it didn’t much help to make it better, though some people seemed to think that it ought to.

The situation, however, was not destined to stay that way indefinitely. At the beginning of the next week, providing the healing of the scar was sufficient and he was in minimal pain, he was to be fitted for prosthetics-- the first, in any case, in the meantime. It would take time, admittedly, and perhaps it would be easier to simply continue to learn to use a wheelchair well rather than waste time attempting to learn how to walk again-- but Victor became more determined the more he thought about it.

It was something to work towards, a goal, a reason-- if he could achieve that then at least he would be capable of something. Capable of something that few had the patience and commitment to master, as he had been informed.

* * *

Victor refused to speak of the time that he had spent away, and what had happened. Sherlock could infer and deduce what must have happened-- the injuries to his legs had been at the beginning of the period he had been away, and hadn’t been properly attended to for a few days at least, which made the wounds more serious than they might have been otherwise, and careful surgery was needed when he arrived at the hospital to make sure the most functionality possible was maintained.

Sherlock could work out some parts; Victor had most likely been questioned and there were marks on him that made it clear that had been the case, though he did not know about what or for how long, nor whether Victor had divulged any information that could be used against him at a later date.

He did know that the people who had caused this had been taken care of, and no longer breathed. It was a small comfort.

Victor refused to speak of the way that he had refused to say a word and had held onto the idea of Sherlock, William, the man he loved back at home and needed to return to. He refused to speak of the fact that it had been his name in his mind again and again, and towards the ends his thoughts had been reduced to William, and it was all he could do to prevent himself saying anything that he would regret.

There had been too much then, and it would still wake him in the middle of the night, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. He would still not speak of it, and it was better that Sherlock was spared the knowledge.

He’d block it out instead, go about his living without saying a word.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock seemed quite interested in the mechanics of the process, honestly, as well as being rather encouraging when it came to Victor’s intention to learn how to use prosthetics as well as he could. Though, there was the one sticking point.

“You’re not going to be able to learn in time for the wedding,” he insisted. “It would be far more sensible to postpone it.”

“Everything’s booked already, Sherlock-- and by that time, we’ll be settled somewhere, I mean--” They both knew that Victor couldn’t continue living in 221B, after all, and part of the generous severance package Victor had received after being officially discharged included the use of a far more accessible flat, at least for the time-being. “There’s time.”

“There is not. You’ll rush it and end up injuring yourself.”

“No, look-- I’ll just learn to walk far enough to get down the bloody aisle, and stand through the ceremony. That’s--” He sighed softly, cutting himself off and giving Sherlock a look that was somewhere towards pleading, though he wouldn’t want to admit that.

There were more considerations to be taken into account than the physical, however-- Sherlock was aware of that. It would be good for Victor to have achieved such a thing. Would it make him feel better about the situation, if he was able to manage just that? The more he thought about it, the more vital it seemed to the other’s mental health. A goal, something to work towards, a time frame to work in-- yes. It would be beneficial in that sense.

At the same time, however, he knew that it would be confidence-shattering if Victor found he was incapable of being ready in time. A matter of balance-- and perhaps he would be able to reconsider it closer to the time, if progress was not sufficient and there was no way the other man would be ready. Lies were sometimes supposed to be a kindness, were they not? Sherlock had been informed so many times, though he had never enjoyed the concept.

Victor was still watching him expectantly by that point, and he finally spoke again. “You won’t be able to last through the reception as well, most likely.”

Victor just about beamed at that; it was clear that Sherlock had decided that it would be permissible for him to attempt to be ready for the wedding. He knew it would take an awful lot of work, but when it was for something like this, it was hardly anything of a burden. He would still be married to Sherlock Holmes, on the date they had intended, as if none of this had happened in between. Or close enough to as if nothing had gone wrong for him, right now.

“I don’t intend to-- don’t worry. Just so I can stand with you.”

A soft smile tugged at Sherlock’s lips, and it was but a moment more before he pulled Victor into a tight embrace. (As ever, it was a side of him that Victor considered himself privileged to see.) “You’ll be wonderful.”

* * *

Christmas came and went quietly that year; Sherlock used Victor’s rehabilitation as an excuse to avoid going to stay with his parents, and Victor then followed up with a call reassuring them that they would see him at the wedding anyway, and yes, he was fine, yes, he’d be fine for the wedding, and no, it wasn’t too much of a strain. He had met them years ago while he and Sherlock were still in university, much to Sherlock’s own irritation, one of which had been the times he was informed of Sherlock’s first name. It had kind of stuck.

Sherlock and Victor were settled in the new flat-- despite Sherlock’s complaints that it was too uncluttered and modern, he had soon set to destroying the kitchen with no small measure of glee --by that point, which made things rather easier, and was thankfully close to where they had been before.

Victor’s progress remained slow and frustrating, a fact that Sherlock was aware of. The loss of both legs made it far more difficult than it would have been otherwise-- but there was a little mercy in the fact that his upper body strength was now sufficient to do certain things with ease.

But he was progressing, which they both took comfort from. Sherlock kept his worries that it would not be quickly enough to himself, and Victor kept his own fears quiet, as if saying them aloud would make them ever more present than they tended to be otherwise.

Christmas day meant there were other people in the flat, if only a few, when one thought of it comparatively. Mary and John came, along with Molly, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson-- it had been decided (by Sherlock) that it would be rather easier to have the gathering at their flat; it would make things easier for Victor. Victor had rather learnt to pick his battles when it came to issues of mobility and travel, and so let Sherlock have this one. It was less awful than being carried up stairs, anyway, something that he had come to loathe with something of a passion.

And, it was a good day. Very good, as far as Victor was concerned-- he was tired, but there were people here who mattered, and the conversation was good.

Sherlock found himself captivated by Victor’s amusement, and realised that he had stopped laughing. Since the incident, Sherlock has hardly heard him laugh. He remembered a sunny morning in the cottage in Norfolk, and Victor only half dressed while he made breakfast, slitted light falling across his skin and Sherlock had been able to make him laugh, then-- all the way back then, he had been able to make him laugh whenever he wanted to, and it would light up his face and Sherlock’s mind and he would find himself smiling back, brightly, brilliantly.

But they lost that, somewhere along the way, and Sherlock pinpointed it to the time in hospital. He hadn’t laughed, not like this, since then. It was both beautiful and heart-breaking, and Sherlock found himself torn.

Victor before is such a contrast to Victor a few weeks ago, when he had refused to move for days-- refused to go to his appointments, refused the wheelchair and refused Sherlock’s help, and the man who had once been so vital and full of energy refused to even try to move. He remembers with such clarity the hopelessness that seemed to drown the both of them, Victor because he did not feel as if there was any point, and Sherlock because he felt once again like he was losing Victor.

Sherlock was not the only one to realise that the laughter was back.

A moment of melancholy overtook Victor at that thought, which his fiancé apparently noticed; he was by his side in another moment, sitting on the arm of the sofa next to which Victor had tucked the wheelchair for the moment.

Victor allowed him to study his expression in silence for a moment, before a tiny smile coloured his expression and he reached up to tug Sherlock down enough to press a little kiss to his cheek. “It’s a good night, Will. Stop looking so worried about me.”

“You are, undeniably, worrying.” His protest was accompanied by a softening of his expression, and he stayed ducked close to Victor, their tones hushed and the others in the room allowing them their moment of privacy.

“And you have worried about me all too much since the hospital. It’s very irregular, and you’ll confuse the poor souls who think you’re an arrogant bastard who sold his own soul for the ability to deduce spectacularly.” Sherlock just about pouted at him, straightening up a little. (He later denied the idea that he ever pouted. Vehemently.)

“As if I would allow them to see me worried.”

Victor smiled, and pushed himself up a little with one arm so he could catch the corner of Sherlock’s mouth for a kiss. “A privilege and a burden indeed-- but I’m fine. I have wine, good company, the prospect of a wedding, and I’m pretty sure that such a thing as presents also exist, and while I am not a child, presents are still exciting. Right next to bubble wrap and the right to lick bowls when baking.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and stood up, shifting his weight a little awkwardly. He’d never be entirely comfortable around groups of people, he thought-- but it was more tolerable with Victor there. “I marvel at how you survived in such a demanding and serious profession for so long, Vic.”

He smiled sadly. “Not much bubble wrap there, dear.”

Sherlock went quiet for a time, watching the other people as they moved about the room, before he glanced back to Victor. “I like hearing you laugh.”

Victor’s suspicions are confirmed when he said that; they had been thinking the same thing this time. They had both been considering laughter when Sherlock came over, and likely the fact that it had seemed lost to them. “I like laughing, I think. It’s a lot more fun than the rest.”

Another of those scrutinising looks was afforded to him, before Sherlock nodded curtly, and his expression cleared somewhat. “So long as you’re okay.”

The remainder of the evening passed merrily, with Victor feeling somewhere along the spectrum of intoxication towards _pissed_ , and Sherlock taking up charge of pushing his wheelchair once he discovered that pushing both wheels at the same time was surprisingly difficult. It was quite nice to be in command of him, anyway, and for once Vic decided that he didn’t mind being pushed.

Sherlock wasn’t precisely unamused, either; the observation of a drunken Victor caused more hilarity than expected.

And, of course, he was rewarded with quite a lot of giggly kisses from Victor has he tried to get the other man into bed, accompanied by some proclamations of just how wonderful Sherlock was for various reasons, including but not limited to: doing complicated science Victor didn’t understand, being able to walk in straight lines, solving murders, agreeing to the idea of marriage, and trying to teach Victor how to make swans out of napkins.

****  
  


* * *

Victor became more frustrated by his progress-- or lack thereof --as the end of January approached. He was able to stand unassisted for short periods of time now, at least, but what use was that if he couldn’t walk? There was no use whatsoever in being able to stand somewhere, if one could not get there without the use of a wheelchair. It was difficult to master at that, and more exhausting than anything he had ever had to do before-- he was sure that walking had never been this hard the first time round.

But the, that time, he thought bitterly-- that time, he had had knees, and ankles that moved properly to stabilise him. It was torturous in its slowness, and the fact that he remembered so vividly what he had lost.

He remembered with pinpoint accuracy what it was like to walk, and run, and duck and roll to avoid something, and lean against the counter while he had tea with Sherlock on a sleepy morning, and the feeling of his legs tangled with the other man’s while neither of them could sleep, and the burn of sore muscles, and standing after sitting for too long only to nearly fall over, and tipsy staggering, and dancing-- fuck, _dancing_ , how was he going to do that now, and Sherlock would have loved it so much, and--

And he remembered laughing with him in Norfolk while they walked beneath trees, and he remembered Sherlock’s attempts to teach him to dance, remembered being lowered carefully and nearly dropped because he made the other man laugh. He remembered all the tiny things that he’d taken for granted before and now missed. He remembered stretching out on the grass with ankles crossed, and the sun against his skin, he remembered water and rivers and rolling his trouser legs up to get across, and slipping and falling and ending up soaked through but laughing again.

He forgot, sometimes. If he woke in the night and there was nothing quite there to remind him, and it felt rather like his legs were still there-- more than a few times, he had nearly fallen off the edge of the bed due to the attempt to stand, and a dozen more he had sat on the edge and tried to stand before realising that he was incapable. More often than not, it had been enough to bring him to tears and to wake Sherlock where he slept close to him.

The first few times he had merely been unsure, and did not know what he could say to make it better-- eventually, it turned out there was little he could say, but he could wrap his arms around the man’s still slightly trembling form, and press kisses to the nape of his neck while he was allowed the time to calm down.

Too many things seemed to rely on time, now.

This time, when Victor finally spoke, his voice was low and emotionless, a flat, hopeless sound that made Sherlock’s stomach drop.

“It’s not going to be enough, is it?” He shook his head faintly, an awful feeling settling in his chest, one that he had been trying to stave off, and that had an awful lot to do with the knowledge that he’d never be the same again. “None of it. It’s not--”

“Stop,” Sherlock murmured, frown colouring his expression and his fingers tracing Victor’s skin. He had downright refused to cease physical contact of that sort down to Victor’s embarrassment and apparent shame at the alterations to his body-- and Victor had rather accepted that if nothing else, Sherlock still thought of him the same in this sense. There was still no proper concept of personal space between them, and Victor still craved the intimacy of those moments they were permitted to share. He wouldn’t have wanted them to stop either, even if it was down to his own fears and worries.

“No, it isn’t the same,” Sherlock continued, before pausing a moment. It was a matter of facts-- those, he could work with. Comfort was a grey area and he  remained unsure on it, but facts, he was exceedingly good at. “It isn’t going to be the same. It will not be ‘enough’ to restore the situation to exactly how it was before, but that is not the objective. It will be ‘enough’ to get you back to functioning with a high quality of life, give the time and energy needed. Life will not be the same. But that is no reason to write it off.”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to the side of Victor’s neck and pulled away a little, mostly to allow him to move if he wished to. Victor rubbed his hands across his face briefly, letting out a long sigh, and his reply came out sounding exhausted. “You’re right. I know that.”

A moment of silence passed between them, before Sherlock shifted himself to sit next to him, legs tucked under himself. “Doesn’t make it easier, I suppose.”

“No. No, not really. There’s something about the thought mattering, though. People say that.”

He was right on the edge, and he could feel it. It took all he had to keep himself on that knife edge, to not fall one way or another, just to focus on the sound of Sherlock’s voice and the gentle press of him, not touching but present, and exerting some pressure that Victor knew wasn’t strictly physical. He breathed slowly and deliberately.

“People spout all kinds of idiotic tripe.”

Victor shook his head, and there would have been a spark of old amusement in his expression. “They do, don’t they? Lucky you’re immune to such codswallop.”

“Mmh. Entirely. I suppose you’re not so bad yourself.”

“The highest compliment, I’m sure.” Victor rolled his eyes, and leant against Sherlock, his demeanour still screaming ‘dejected’, but his words a fragile glass covering to the hollow beneath. “Love you, though.”

Sherlock pressed a kiss to his temple. “I’ll be here.” _And I hate to see you so sad, Vic, but I would rather see you this way than not at all._ Was that selfish? To not allow Victor a reprieve, because he needed him here so desperately-- perhaps. But it wasn’t going to change. He wanted, and needed him, and there was nothing that was going to change.

And yet, they were not okay here, and Sherlock could almost feel the lack of conclusion.

They were quiet and stilled for long moments, as Victor could feel a constricting hand of despair around his chest. Panic was not far behind, and he closed his eyes tight, leaning closer to Sherlock, letting his fingers twist into fabric, pull close, bury his face in expensive fabric and hyperventilate into it.

He felt fingers against his back, steady and silent, and it was old comfort-- but deep _crimson red scarlet crimson_ of memory, and tears were not far behind. There were no hope pinpricks of stars in the sky, there was nothing-- the future was dark, and would lead only to more suffering than he could think of-- more incapability, more frustration, more sorry and dependency and he would lose everything, would he not?----

“I can’t do this,” he blurted out, voice choked and muffled by Sherlock’s shirt and skin, fingers pulling tighter, as if he could pull himself within Sherlock’s rib cage to some safe place. He didn’t care, he didn’t, he couldn’t-- he could not do this. He could not _live_ like this, when it was but a shade of living. What did it matter when he was not even himself? “I _can’t_ , William, I’m sorry-- I’m _so_ sorry, I----”

“Breathe, Victor.” Hands pressed against his back, rubbing in slow circles, and Sherlock ducked his head to speak close, close and low. “Breathe, Vic.”

He shook his head, and breaths changed to sobs. “I’d do this if I could, I would, for you-- but I’m not enough, _I can’t_ , I’m not---- this is too much, I can’t. Please. _Please_ \--”

He couldn’t have said what he was begging for. Forgiveness, perhaps, for not being strong enough for this, or to be allowed to stop all of this and to go end it instead, or to be enough as he was, to be okay. For Sherlock to fix it for him, because he didn’t know how to do it himself, because he hadn’t the means of the energy, and he didn’t have a clue how he was supposed to get through this. He hadn’t a clue how to breathe with these charred lungs, or how to keep this scarred heart beating. Victor Trevor was already dead, had died on that operating table or in that collapse, and this was just some twisted joke pulled on him by the universe, that would hurt them all so much worse in the end. This could not be his heart or his body, not when it hurt so much, and this was just some sick parody of a life that he had loved. This was not living-- this had to be something else. _This could not be living_.

“It would have been easier--” was added, and he hated that he was even saying it, hated that he was making Sherlock hear this from him, it was so damn selfish to even think. “It would have been, wouldn’t it, if I had just-- if I had died there, _fuck_ , it would have been easier. I wouldn’t have-- and you, I--”

“Breathe,” Sherlock repeated, and his voice was thick with emotion repressed, which would not be allowed until Victor was okay and he was on his own. It seemed so much more vital than it had ever been before. His words became little more than a whisper, while Victor desperately tried to calm his breathing and stop shaking. “I would build you back up from ashes, Victor, if it meant that I could have you here. And I _will_ , if that’s what you need. I will put our life back together piece by piece if it takes me as long as I have, you have my word-- I would do anything. For you. For us. And that is all I have, so I need you-- I need you here, to work with me, and try. That’s all. And if it’s asking too much, then-- then, no, I won’t let you. There’s no way you’re going anywhere now, Victor. But I won’t ask you to do that for me, because I’ll make sure.”

He didn’t know, either, where the words were going, but they came from some terrified part of him that was so afraid to lose the man in his arms to himself. A part which did not know what could be worse, or what he would do; it would be his world ripped away, the very foundations shattered, his heart taken from his chest and neatly sewn back up so not a soul would know to look at him.

Victor didn’t move, but slowly, slowly clawed himself back, evened his breathing, loosened his grip. His heart still pounded, all on its own, and his lungs had not given out. He was here, already dead but still living.

They would struggle on.

 


	4. Chapter 4

February was triumphant, and Victor’s joy was infectious. His balance had been improving steadily over time, but huge strides had been made since the beginning of the month. Well-- perhaps that was not the appropriate term; small steps would be more literal, but in comparison to the progress before, it was wonderful.

Sherlock felt like a weight had been lifted from him to know that Victor had something to live for now, if he was improving.

It was obvious he had news when he arrived home, and Sherlock, who had commandeered most of the living room floor and spread pictures of various locations out on it-- something to do with a case --gave him an immediately expectant look when he returned home. “Something’s happened.”

Usually, it occurred, that would be associated with a less than desirable event. It seemed that this time, that was not to be.

“Uh huh.” He grinned at Sherlock, glancing only briefly to the mess on the floor and avoiding running it over. “I-- well.” It seemed strange to say all of a sudden, though it really should not-- it was a fact, and while it would be incongruous before, now, it was a situation that the both of them would be glad of. “I walked. Kind of. Well, kind of badly, and very briefly, to be honest, and my balance is total shit and I nearly killed myself falling over, but-- well.”

A rather closely matching ecstatic expression was on Sherlock’s face, and it was but another few seconds before he was on his feet and pulling Victor into as effective a hug as could be achieved at that moment. “I told you so,” he muttered close to his ear, his smile still abundantly clear in his voice.

Victor laughed, pulling his fiancé close and pressing another kiss to his skin. “Should have known to trust the resident genius, hm?”

“Why, of course-- I don’t hold the title for nothing.”

“Perhaps my opinion was dampened by the explosions you seem to cause more regularly than any sane scientist would.” He pulled back enough to see Sherlock’s expression again, and his own had still hardly faded. It was the first time in months that he had actually felt like he was capable of doing this at all-- as well as capable of doing it in time for their wedding. Things were finally going the way that he needed them to, and it was one of the best feelings he could possibly imagine just at the moment.

He was to walk down the aisle to marry Sherlock, and he would be able to do that. The wedding meant more than it ever had done before, now.

Perhaps hadn’t died back there after all.

Or perhaps these were simply new lungs.

* * *

Sherlock came back a few evenings later to find Victor sprawled across their bed, wheelchair abandoned beside it, watching the ceiling and with a cigarette burning away into ash between his fingers. While he didn’t look over to Sherlock when he came in, he did take a breath, as if he’d not been bothering up until now.

“It’s strange, you know,” he started, gaze tracing over the cracks in the ceiling. Sherlock sat himself by his left hand side and used his arm to prop himself up on the right, so he was leaning over the man and could watch his expression more intently.

“You’re supposed to elaborate,” he prompted when Victor didn’t go on immediately, the other man taking a drag on the cigarette before he continued.

“Right, yeah. It’s strange-- because I can still feel them sometimes. It was like that when I was first in the hospital, but I thought it’d go away.”

Sherlock shot a glance in the direction of what remained of Victor’s legs, a tiny frown colouring his expression. He had researched it immediately afterwards, admittedly, but the descriptions had been rather unhelpful and did not give him as much insight as he had hoped for. It was only too evident that Victor meant the parts of his legs he had lost. “Does it hurt?”

Victor gave the smallest of shrugs, his gaze finally flicking over to Sherlock, and he held out the cigarette to him a moment later. He was entirely aware that Sherlock’s good work towards quitting had been lost when he had been reported missing, and while he wasn’t smoking much at the moment, he was still doing it. Sherlock didn’t refuse this time, and Victor watched the smoke corrupting the air, curling lightly above them.

“Sometimes,” Victor answered finally, stretching a little, and averting his gaze. “Crushing pain, I suppose the word would be-- or it feels like cramp, except I can’t exactly get rid of that. Apparently it’s something to do with the injury being traumatic, in part, at least. But it doesn’t always hurt.”

Sherlock’s expression registered interest as he shifted to lay beside Victor, and gave his cigarette back. _Those things will kill you, you know._ _Yes, but something else will get there first._ “What else?”

“Just as if it’s there. As if I could move it if I wanted to-- and I suppose it’s a little strange, but I sort of could. Some of the muscles and nerves that would have been involved are intact, so-- if it was, I could.” He didn’t look exactly upset by the idea-- more thoughtful than anything else, in all honesty. This time. “Or sometimes if just feels itchy. Do you have any idea how bloody frustrating that is? Could utilise it as a very specialised branch of torture.”

And no, of course he could not know, because he had never been taken apart so, and Victor was thankful.

“Does it bother you?” Victor shrugged again at Sherlock’s question, reaching with his free hand to rub at a sore spot at the side of his thigh. “Not overly, I suppose. Or there’s nothing to be done about it. It doesn’t matter much unless it gets in the way, and that only happens when it hurts too much. So. Not often.”

Sherlock nodded faintly, before propping himself up on one elbow to lean over and kiss Victor, who tasted like cigarettes and hope.

When he pulled back, Victor was smiling at him, and his expression was decidedly fond, if tired. “I’ll tell you these things more often if I get that response.”

Sherlock scoffed and sat up, though the faint smile was clear enough to Victor. “You, Victor, are a sentimental fool.”

He grinned. “You never seemed to mind before.”

“That,” Sherlock stated, “Is an absolute lie.”

There had been a time when Sherlock had minded Victor’s sentimentality, after all. Near the beginning, after the summer when it truly started, Sherlock had minded terribly. Victor had made attempts to avoid showing as much sentimentality as possible at that time, for fear of scaring him off, but over time the both of them had mellowed somewhat.

Back then, they had been young and bright and nothing could have stopped them at all-- no one would be able to get in their way if they wanted to do something, and it was just the fault of the rest of the world that it did not agree with them on everything. Back then, there had been reckless times and shared experiences, running for their lives in a way that was more fun than it ever had been since, and they had collapsed into a laughing heap at the end of it.

It had been an old time, of discovery and running from the problems that were not one another, and it was a time that would not come around again.

But wasn’t that what youth was supposed to be for? The wild youth, muscles burning and lungs heaving, not yet corrupted by time and age and commitment. Young hearts, clear minds, passions that burned with a vitality that only a few things were able to sustain over time. A time for blood and experience, destructive in their fun, supposedly jeopardising the futures that were to come, the futures chased hand in hand, pulled apart and hurled back together. There were reams of lists, of what was lost, and what had gone wrong, and that was what was needed.

Perhaps he saw it that way only in retrospect; it had been different then. It had felt undirected and explosive, with contained pockets of resistance.

Sherlock’s resistance to sentimentality had been one of those, he thought, though it had been broken down years ago, and he was glad that it had been. He hoped that Sherlock was too-- for now, he hardly seemed to regret it. Nowadays Sherlock was far more comfortable with showing sentiment when it was in private, and though certain words were rarely spoken, he knew that they were true all the same. There had been such changes in that manner

Victor just smiled widely and pushed himself upright to grab Sherlock, and pull him back down onto the bed half on top of him, the stump of his thigh fitting between Sherlock’s just as they would have been before, except with more tangled legs and the feeling of Sherlock’s cold feet against his own.

He kissed him once more, and murmured close to his skin. “Ah, and yet here were both still are.”

* * *

“I kind of want it to be a surprise.” The statement itself came as a surprise, while they sat in the kitchen somewhere in the middle of March, Victor’s wheelchair abandoned in the corner. Sherlock wasn’t entirely sure how, but he managed to get himself up to sit on the edge of the table that was free from Sherlock’s debris and experiments, and really, he does wonder at his upper body strength sometimes. It was decent before, but now, Sherlock could consider it quite spectacular.

“Context,” he prompted, looking up from his microscope and giving Victor another of his searching looks.

“Right, right. Walking. You seeing me walking. I mean-- what do you think?”

Sherlock considered for a moment, frowning at him. “And if you progress to wearing it for a longer period of time than the physical therapy sessions allow?”

Victor looked unsure; he hadn’t entirely considered that he would get to that stage. But then again, at the rate he’d been progressing, it was more of an option. Sherlock’s mind wandered, but not to the experiment this time, but rather to the plan for the rest of that day. Victor had wanted to stand through the ceremony, which will be tiring enough for him at that. It made him wonder, however--

“I could teach you to dance.”

Victor looked over to Sherlock sharply, clearly surprised at the suggestion, and Sherlock himself didn’t look quite like he had meant to say it. But a smile slowly pulled at his lips and he nodded, holding out a hand to Sherlock, who moved to stand before him, arms loosely encircling his waist. Victor leant up to kiss him soundly, answering only once he had pulled back. “Please.”

Sherlock grinned, his grip tightening a little around Victor, just enough to lift him just off the edge of the table and kiss him again.

“Oi-- Put me down!”

The detective span them once on the spot before he complied, Victor very nearly pouting at him again. He didn’t much like being picked up, admittedly-- but after a moment his smile returned, something that he did not seem to be able to avoid. “Bastard,” he muttered, leaning over to poke Sherlock in the stomach as retaliation. “So. Will you do it?”

Sherlock swatted his hand away lightly, and leant close. “Victor Trevor, I would be honoured to teach you to dance.”

He laughed, pulling him into a kiss that was as good a thanks as any. “No idea why I’m marrying you anyway,” he teased softly. “You just take advantage of my newfound lightness to pretend you’re strong.”

“Cake, Victor. There will be cake.” Sherlock hummed along with some fragment of a composition in his head, and moved almost imperceptibly in time with it. His gaze stayed on Victor, flickering over his expression: the crinkle of his eyes, the curve of his mouth, the angles and slants of bones delicate beneath skin. Captivating, for that split second, and Vic never seemed to mind him staring so much as other people did.

“Ah yes,” he responded, giving Sherlock’s cheek a gentle pat and bringing him back to the moment. “I’m marrying you for the wedding cake. How on Earth could I forget that?”

“An impossible puzzle indeed.”

“Your favourite sort, then.”

He grinned, brilliantly, as if Victor was some exquisite scientific breakthrough. “Why do you think I keep you around?”

* * *

Sherlock expressed fascination the first time he saw Victor using his prosthetics, a few days into April when Victor deemed his proficiency at walking to be enough to try it while at home, and while Sherlock was around. He could still hardly manage wearing them for more than half an hour at a time, and walk for far less of that, mostly due to the energy expenditure required to do even the simplest of things, but it was still progress.

Victor had been too caught up to entirely remember Sherlock’s offer of dancing, at first, and the way that Sherlock watched him like a hawk while he made tea in the kitchen-- while using every available surface as a support while he was moving, admittedly, but it still most definitely counted --amused him more than it perhaps should.

“I’m not going to die,” he assured him, only to be met by Sherlock rolling his eyes at him and moving closer.

“I trust you not to die making tea, Victor. It’s interesting.”

He shrugged faintly. “Which part?”

“You.”

Victor laughed then, and turned to him, leaning carefully against the counter while their tea was steeping and keeping one hand on the edge, just to be sure. “Me? Just being me? Because that’s quite the wide subject, Sherlock, and I do it an awful lot of the time.” There was something akin to nerves in his voice, which Sherlock supposed wasn’t so surprising when one considered that this was the first time Sherlock had seen him like this in months; at his full height and able to move in this way. It was endlessly fascinating, and amazing at the same time, that Victor had achieved such things in a relatively short while.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again, though, and moved to stand carefully close to Victor, his hand resting on the counter near him and just a few inches taller in this position. When they were both standing, Victor would be an inch taller than him, even now. “I offered to teach you to dance, didn’t I?”

Ah, and there it was again, that bright smile that Sherlock still loved to see on Victor’s face. He nodded, pushing himself away from the edge of the counter a little and towards Sherlock, his free arm wrapping around his waist lightly for support. “You did.”

They moved to the living room, and Sherlock left Victor standing in the centre while he found music-- a composition of his own, that had been recorded a few months previously. He smiled again to hear it, but it was a nervous one, and he took Sherlock’s hand again as soon as he was close enough.

Admittedly, it was little more than a gentle swaying that time, and Sherlock quietly instructing Victor on how to move his feet, along with Victor complaining that such fine movements were difficult to achieve still, but they managed. It counted as dancing for the moment, as far as Victor was concerned, and Sherlock was overjoyed to have Victor in his arms, standing, really standing again while they moved.

Little steps, and they were ones that ended in Victor being entirely exhausted but elated just ten minutes later, and allowing Sherlock to help him back to the kitchen to move back into the wheelchair for the remainder of the day.

His heart was beating, but happily.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Victor still suffered dark days of refusing to move, when he would not even bother to try, would not bother to move, and Sherlock would not know what to do. He would refuse the wheelchair and the prosthetics, refuse food and what was considered proper functioning.

At those times it felt hopeless to even continue with this, when everything was so much effort, everything was so very difficult, everything involved so much more energy than it used to. Moving around the house could tire him out and render him incapable of normal functioning for the rest of the day, and going out even for a short walk around the block would be enough to have him refusing to move for the rest of the evening.

He could not see an end in sight, and it felt like a slow, terrible torment to have to keep going, to have to keep fighting, when it only seemed to leech the enjoyment from the world.

Those times, his heart felt stitched with dissolving threads, ready to pull apart at any moment, and send what little resolve he managed to keep tight hold of spilling away, and he would lose his last reason to fight to fix what was wrong. His lungs would revert to how they were before, when they did not belong to him, and his body would hardly seem his own. It would become impossible to move or breathe freely, and he would despair for himself, and the man he was hurting over and over just by being there. It left him so tired again, all the time, without even the movement added in on top of everything.

Sorrow would overtake Sherlock, too, to see him that way, when he always used to be so very vibrant and full of energy, practically dancing around the kitchen babbling to Sherlock while he made breakfast, and at these times? At those times, it seemed so grey and empty, and he seemed so heart-rendingly hopeless.

He recalled the way that Victor had cried all those months ago, and the fact that he had not wanted to continue. The way that he had begged for something, something that Sherlock was not sure of even now, and something that Sherlock did not think he had given him, or would ever be able to. It caused fear to roil in his gut again, as it would every time, with the thought that he could still lose him. He had been so glad to be able to have him back, whole or not-- but perhaps it was not enough for Victor himself.

It sometimes seemed that they had changed so much over this time, and he wondered whether all would return to how it was before. Victor, who was confident and professional to the very last, efficient and ruthless when he needed to be, though he would still worry terribly over the smallest things when it came to Sherlock. To Sherlock himself, the ability to go off on cases and not worry about leaving Victor to take care of himself, and being able to trust that the other man would do just what he wanted to, and be content with it.

Pain and experience changed people, and that was only too evident in the both of them. Yet time changed people also, and they would have that. There was scope to recover what was lost, in more than the physical sense.

The bouts passed, in time, though the both of them lived in trepidation, in case one refused to leave.

* * *

“I was rather planning on dipping you,” Sherlock said on one of the occasions they danced, when Victor was secure and close to him, music playing in the background, and Victor was more sure of his own steps than he was that first time. It was still infinitely tiring, but he could walk for half an hour with assistance. That took care of walking down the aisle and more, though standing with Sherlock might be a little more difficult in terms of his energy-- but he would have him there, and so, they would work something out just fine.

Sherlock’s suggestion made Victor look a little alarmed, at first, though it faded to mere worry. It was a matter of uncertainty, and he was ever so glad that Sherlock had warned him beforehand; there was every possibility he would not know what to do with his legs otherwise. It was a tricky business of balance, but he was quite sure he could trust Sherlock not to drop him.

“Not like last time,” Sherlock added after another moment, meaning the occasion that was years ago and tinted by the fog of memory. But his words made Victor smile, and that was enough.

“I’ll try not to make you laugh this time,” he answered, uncertainty still flickering in his expression as he searched Sherlock’s. “Go on. Go slow, I trust you.”

Sherlock moved his hand to support Victor better, and lowered him slowly, while Victor concentrated on the movement of the legs that still felt foreign and strange to him when he tried to do new things, and not quite like his own. “Okay?” he asked, and it was a question that was entirely serious, but as he looked at Victor’s expression, he could see that the worry was gone from it.

“Better than the last time,” Victor teased softly, and Sherlock brought them both back up to a standing position, smiling once more. “And I’m sure it’ll be more graceful on the day.”

It wouldn’t, really-- or he didn’t think so, but he found that he didn’t mind as much as he might otherwise. So long as he was going to be able to do this, even for a little while-- even just the once dance before he had to use the wheelchair, it would be spectacular.

He would dance, and the people he loved would be there, and he would have made it that far. If he could just do that-- if he could do that, then he could get through the rest, he could make it to the end. If he could just do that one thing, he would feel like he was able to finish this once and for all. It was symbolic above anything, that much he was aware of, but there was a certain value to be placed in symbols and beliefs. They could help.

They danced until Victor couldn’t keep it up any more, dipping and twirling with the utmost care, Sherlock doing his best to support Victor and give him those little breaks from weight-bearing, Victor doing his best to make the engineered legs his own, until his time was up. Until he couldn’t bear his own weight and was exhausted beyond all words. This time, however, he allowed Sherlock to carry him to their bedroom-- bridal-style, his head resting against the man’s shoulder and humming a soft little tune that went along with the music that had been playing in the background. Sherlock’s music, a part of the man himself; it came from both his mind and his heart, was visceral just beneath the surface, yet refined into something elegant and beautiful. There was a great power there, but it was contained, captured in a moment as flowers encased in ice.

He could hear Sherlock’s heart beating in his chest and feel his own chest rising and falling in time, a smile on both their faces, and nothing but the utmost of adoration between them in that glided, ichor-fed moment.

It finally felt like living again.

* * *

Sherlock had not been taking cases for a large portion of the time Victor had been unwell, but the next week, he was presented with one that was far too interesting to ignore. When he told Victor about it, the man just smiled at him, and informed him that he was glad Sherlock was getting back to cases. It wasn’t as if he could have missed the fact that he had been turning them down recently, and he would have to realise that it was because of him-- but it did not have to last, and that was somewhat reassuring.

It was another step back towards where they had been before all of this, and that was terribly valuable to Victor now.

Sherlock left him in bed that morning, exhausted from the previous day and assuring him that he would be just fine where he was, and would get up later. He seemed in a safe enough mood, meaning Sherlock felt secure enough leaving him there with a quiet instruction to rest, and pursue the case that had been playing at the back of his mind since Lestrade contacted him with the details of it.

There was still something that was different, however; he was ever more aware that he needed to return home. He would not be so reckless as he might have been in a time before, but he would still be brilliant. There would be no one there to tell him, but the words would be echoed from times past, where there was someone there to tell him, and it would be acceptable. But at the same time, he would be careful, and he would return home. It was a prerequisite. Sherlock held Victor’s quiet wish for him to be careful, spoken in the soft hours of the morning, close to heart.

Coat, armour, and he hailed a cab once he was outside, the thrill of a case throbbing gently through his bloodstream, and god, it was good to have this back. It could be running across rooftops of laying in wait for some criminal, tracking one down or being shot at in the middle of the night.

The game was on, and he was a part of it once more.

* * *

The case consumed his attention for a week. Victor found that he could not bring himself to mind, when an old version of Sherlock was back-- the whirlwind of energy and brilliant deductions that he had never been able to wrap his mind around fully, the genius detective who appeared in a swirl of coat and caustic comments, and disappeared before the sentence was done, when he had deemed it useless information.

It was a sight that he found he had missed, despite the fact that it was not always the most pleasant thing when he did not come home and would not sleep for days on end.

He had missed it, and missed it because of the way Sherlock was so passionate about it. He was filled with manic energy and ideas, his mind racing and finally fully utilised, his ideas and thoughts coming at a mile a minute. He missed it because Sherlock was incredible when he was like this, even with everything else.

Victor couldn’t claim that it was good for everyone, or that Sherlock did not offend too many people in the process, but murderers were caught and he was happy, which was some consolation for what was left in his wake.

He came home regularly-- more regularly than he might have done before --and kept Victor updated on the progress of his case, and he was most often found in the living room, muttering over files and pictures. Victor did his best to be a sounding board for the detective while he was home, and found himself more interested in what was going on than he might usually have been. Perhaps it was just that he had little to do otherwise, besides his rehabilitation.

The case drew to a close early on a cool morning, and Sherlock was back to their flat hours later, where he collapsed onto the bed next to Victor and woke him up. And as much as Victor loved to see him working on a case, he also loved to see him here, warm and real and undeniably human, curled lightly around Victor and speaking in a low mumble as he related the conclusion of the case, despite the fact he was quite obviously minutes away from falling asleep. Victor listened with the faintest of smiles, and reminded him that it was amazing, before informing him that if he did not sleep he’d be forced to find a way to knock him out.

Sherlock complied.

* * *

The aftermath of the case left Sherlock bored for a while, but he found experiments to occupy himself with, and there was still something strangely fascinating about Victor learning to walk, and dance, and do things that he wanted to. He invested his energy in the planning of the wedding instead as it drew closer, and in ensuring that Victor would be in a fit state to cope with it, both mentally and physically. He did that part quietly, all the same, for fear of appearing overly worried when he was doing so well.

Victor was fighting for his self-sufficiency and independence still, but he was inching his way towards it. He felt a little more like his old self as the days passed and he was able to stand for longer, albeit still only with some support if it was to be longer than a span of ten minutes. He felt less vulnerable and more capable, and better in himself than he had since the operation. The exhaustion didn’t pass and he hadn’t his old energy, but as time went by there were more small victories, and more little things that he no longer needed someone else to do for him-- and downright refused to let anyone else do for him on a number of occasions.

There was a part of Victor that was still worried about the wedding, however-- there would be walking and standing, there would be people there, an awful lot of people who hadn’t seen him walk since. There would be expectations and he found himself doubting his capabilities just a little.

Sherlock, however, appeared to have complete faith in his ability to, at the very least, walk down the aisle and stand with Sherlock during the ceremony. He had wanted to do that part properly, though there were things that could be done if it turned out not to be workable.

They would try, though, and with Victor’s determination, Sherlock at least, was sure that it would go as well as they hoped.

It was a discussion they had while Victor was seated once again on the edge of the kitchen counter to eat breakfast, which he had made for both Sherlock and himself, and was simple but effective enough. It had been a bit of a trial to get around, but he was getting used to it, and it was easier when he was wearing prosthetics, which he wasn’t just at the moment; he was saving the window of time he would be able to wear them for later, when he was to go and talk through wedding arrangements with a few people.

“Do you think the wedding’s going to-- well. Think I’ll be able to manage it?”

Sherlock gave him a mildly surprised glance. “Do you not think so?”

“It’s not that, exactly. I just… well. I wonder if I’m ready enough for it yet,” Victor murmured.

A faint shrug was, and a moment was spent on the consumption of breakfast as he considered. “If you’re careful, I don’t see why there ought to be a problem. You’ve been doing very well so far.”

He gave a low hum of consideration, before nodding. “I guess so. Just a matter of balance.” Vic frowned briefly. “Both literal and time-wise.”

“You can’t wear prosthetics the entire time, obviously. It would be detrimental and I’m quite sure I’m the one who would have to listen to your complaints.”

Vic huffed out a soft laugh, giving him a mock glare. “I’d kick you if I had the legs for it. But-- I know that part, anyway, yes. I suppose the plan would be to wear them during the ceremony, which will hopefully not last too long, and then… keep them for the pictures, then wheelchair, then we’ll have to see if I have the energy for dancing later in the evening.” It was a daunting prospect either way, however.

Sherlock nodded. “Practical. I see no reason why you can’t manage.”

Victor smiled brightly, apparently pleased with the judgement, and reached out a hand to Sherlock, who shifted himself close and pressed a kiss to Victor’s temple. “I’ll manage.”

And to think he had feared that Sherlock would not want to stay for him like this.

* * *

Sherlock was the one to work on the vows as the date of the wedding approached, as it seemed to be doing every faster. Victor was often too tired to entertain the prospect of putting together words of such importance, though there were evenings in which he would sit with Sherlock and go through such things, even with exhausting weighing heavily on him after long days.

There were, after all, only a handful of words that needed to be included in the ceremony itself; the rest was up to them. With everything that had happened since their engagement and all they had come through, getting those words right seemed to be more important than he could have imagined it to be before. Victor found himself astounded by Sherlock’s willingness; most of the time their affection was contained to private times when there was no one else to hear. This would be undeniably public, a declaration in its own right, which was a far more nerve-wracking experience than Victor felt it had any right to be.

The words were eventually pinned down to exacting and careful phrases, and Victor was entirely sure that he would be incapable of saying them without crying on the day, which was sure to be entirely mortifying.

They hit so close to his heart, and were promises he would carry with him for the rest of his life, as would Sherlock.

Another matter to be attended to was the small issue of guests, who was to do what, and generally how they were to organise the event. Victor had no family to speak of; his mother and sister had died many years ago now, and his father had passed not long after he left university. Sherlock was less keen to actually have his family there, but had no choice, though he was putting off telling them for as long as possible to save himself the ordeal of fussing and congratulations that would be sure to ensue.

There were obvious choices, though there would be few people there that Victor knew. Perhaps one or two people he had worked with and counted as friends, but there was hardly a guarantee, and a job like his was not precisely conducive to lasting friendships. Sherlock knew more people, but would most likely wish to invite but a handful.

It would be a quiet affair over all, with just the people who were held closest-- and the both of them preferred it that way as it was.

“Someone’s supposed to walk you down the aisle, I believe,” Sherlock pointed out one evening, when Victor was leaning against him on the sofa after dinner and trying to concentrate on reading through a document.

“Yeah,” Victor said slowly, setting it aside and twisting a little to catch Sherlock’s expression. “Pretty sure my father’s supposed to do that, but he’s dead and in a box, so I don’t think it’s going to happen. Unless you want to learn how to reanimate the dead in a very short stretch of time, and without any of the nasty side effects people in films seem to get.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Mmh. And still need someone to do it, probably-- which is a bit of a sticking point. I don’t have anyone on my side who could do it.”

It was painful to think about, but true. There were only a few options as it was, now, and most of them were closer to Sherlock-- or had known him first, at the very least, while Victor had been flitting in and out of his life on assignments.

Sherlock stayed silent for a few long moments, his fingers tracing absently across Victor’s skin as he considered. “Lestrade would.”

Lestrade was one who had helped them through difficult times, even when Victor had not been there all the time, when Sherlock had been struggling with his addiction and Victor had been at a loss. He had given Sherlock the cases, and at the time it had quite possibly saved both Sherlock’s life, and the life that he and Victor had together. Victor had talked more with him now that he was exclusively in London, and he was planning all of this. He was quite sure that somewhere in Sherlock’s mind he fulfilled a fatherly role, although he presumed that the detective wouldn’t be one to admit it.

“He would, wouldn’t he,” Victor mused, watching Sherlock’s expression carefully. “He’ll be terribly proud of you, too. I know it.”

Sherlock just rolled his eyes again, though his expression had softened. “You’re all sentimental fools.”

He smiled, and pushed himself up to kiss Sherlock gently. “You can ask him, then. In a suitably non sentimental manner, I’m sure, and probably over a dead body. It does sound like something you’d do, you have to admit.”

“You just want me to do it so he knows I want him to,” Sherlock grumbled.

Vic grinned. “Something like that. The man deserves some recognition for putting up with you for so long, love.”

“By that logic, so do you.”

“Uh huh. And I get it by marrying you. Those are the rules, William, you can’t blame me.”

Sherlock swatted him lightly on the hip, before wrapping his arm back around his fiance’s waist and tucking his head against Victor’s. “I’ll ask him. Bastard.”

“Love you too, dear.”

* * *

Three days, and Sherlock woke in the middle of the night to freefall, heart clenched for a moment before he forced himself into relaxing. He kept very still for a few long moments, before the movement of a pen over paper caught his attention, and he finally looked over to Victor’s side of the bed.

“Can’t sleep either?”

Victor’s lips curved into a smile in the dark, tiny but present. “Nope.”

“You’re writing.”

“Aren’t you supposed to be a genius?”

“A sleepy one.” He yawned, propping himself up on an elbow. “It’s an exception.”

They were silent for another few moments, before Victor glanced over to Sherlock, taking in his expression carefully.

“You’re writing poetry,” Sherlock said finally, sinking back down into bed. “Never did understand poetry. People read too much into it.”

“Old habit,” Vic murmured, putting down the pen and paper and turning onto his side, meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “I like it.”

“I know you do.” There was a note of teasing in his tone, and Victor rolled his eyes. “I find them sometimes. You’re terrible at hiding things.”

“Which implies I try that hard to hide them.”

“Do you not?”

“Well. Somewhat,” he paused, before giving a rueful smile. “I rely on your inability to understand the complexities of poetry, and presume you don’t know precisely what I feel from them.”

Sherlock made a low noise of complaint, frowning at Victor. “I understand some parts. Some of them are about me.”

A faint blush coloured Victor’s cheeks, and he cleared his throat before continuing. “Uh. Some, yes. Can’t deny that.” Even if his name had never been used, it was quite obvious. There was no one else in Victor’s life whom it could refer to, after all.

The detective gave a low hum, reaching out to brush the back of his knuckles gently across flushed skin. “I still don’t understand you.”

Vic smiled just faintly, before letting out a low sigh. “Good.”

“Good?”

“Uh huh. Now, if you’re not going to kiss me, I have words to be mangling.”

He was afforded another kiss for that, and Sherlock curled himself lightly around him as he wrote, dozing somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, and staving off another dream in the process. Victor woke him for the dawn, shifting himself into the wheelchair in an efficient movement and getting Sherlock to follow him. He slipped out of the flat and into the lift, Sherlock looking mildly disgusted at the smell and the fact he was wearing no shoes.

“You can have a shower when we get back,” Victor assured him with an amused little laugh, reaching out to take his hand briefly.

Once they were to the top floor (the third, admittedly; it wasn’t a particularly tall building, but they were in the ground floor), Victor wheeled himself to the edge of one more flight of stairs. “Now, I know I hate you carrying me-- but there are exceptions.”

He gave an unsure little smile and reached his arms out to Sherlock, who picked him up with the utmost care and without further discussion, Victor gripping his hips with his thighs as Sherlock took them up the remaining stairs and out onto the flat section of rooftop.

Just how Victor knew this was here, Sherlock wasn’t sure, considering the fact that it took him an awfully long time to get up even a short flight of stairs on his own. He presumed that the man had been up here while Sherlock was working on a case or was otherwise occupied, perhaps to watch the sun rising.

Sherlock glanced around quickly for a place to sit, and found a raised spot near the edge that was far enough from it to feel secure, setting Victor down first then sitting next to him. Victor shuffled himself slightly closer, and leant lightly against the other man.

See, I should have proposed somewhere like this,” he said softly, giving Sherlock a small smile before letting his gaze stray to the stain of light on the horizon that heralded a new dawn. “Rather than just because I was scared and shaken up.”

Sherlock shook his head, wrapping an arm loosely around Victor’s shoulders, and pressed a kiss against his temple. “It wouldn’t have happened.”

Vic huffed out a little laugh; he was right. “You know me too well.”

“It comes from having known you for over a decade, Vic. It’s not spectacular.”

“Maybe not. But you are.”

“You’re a soppy poet who likes to watch sun rises. Can’t trust a word you say on the matter.” Sherlock was fighting a laugh all the same, and it was apparently a losing battle.

Victor was quiet for a while, apparently distracted by the pale pastel colours of the sun against the clouds, somewhere between pink and lilac, and stained at the edges by a blue-grey that was to brighten as time went on. “I’m just… glad to be here. Glad to have you here. Glad, for all of it, I think. And if that makes me soppy, then so be it. I could so easily not be here, but I am. And… a lot of that is down to you being here, and staying, even when you didn’t have to. An awful lot of my bothering to learn all this again is because you were there, and we were supposed to be getting married. And we will, too. And I’ll be able to stand, and be so very glad to still be breathing, and I’ll promise to be with you for as long as we both have left, and to be the best I can. I suppose you’d refuse all repayment, think the concept ridiculous, but---- I owe you a lot. My life and my happiness, and that’s only to start with.”

He sounded perfectly calm as he talked, but Sherlock’s expression sobered just a little, and he leant over to press fingers lightly against the man’s cheek, turning his head towards him to catch his gaze and watch his expression.

“You’ve no idea how good it is to hear you say that,” he murmured, quiet enough for the tight emotion in his chest not to be heard. “After all of this.”

Victor’s smile was uncertain, but it lasted only a moment, before he pulled Sherlock into a tight embrace. “You’re more than I deserve, Will.”

Sherlock shook his head, let his fingers slide into the back of Victor’s hair, cradling his skull gently. “I love you. You deserve all I can give, and more. But as I’m incredibly selfish, you can just keep me, with the murders and experiments and perhaps a few small explosions along the way-- but it’ll never be dull, and I’ll not stop loving you.”

Victor laughed, and kissed him again. “I love you too, you absolute arse.”

They stayed until Victor got cold and the sun had risen, murmuring the kind of sweet nothings that couples were supposed to, interspersed with teasing and comments that had the both of them dissolving into laughter more than once. It reminded them of golden university days, and the both of them hoped for more to come.

Perhaps they would make it to the end, after all.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Apparently, they weren’t supposed to see one another on the morning of the wedding, but it was a tradition that Sherlock saw no point in, and Victor was far more comfortable with the other man helping him with the few things that needed to be done. He was to wait until as late as possible to put on his prosthetics, in the hope that it would help somewhat-- though by that point, Sherlock wouldn’t be present and someone else would have to help him balance while he did so, but that would be fine.

As time wore on people arrived at the flat to help, and Sherlock slipped away to make last minute checks and presumably chain smoke while he did. It was mostly due to the fact that things were getting incredibly hectic at their flat, he was quite sure that his presence there would only make things more complicated and possibly worrisome for Victor, and there were other places he needed to be. He still had to get changed, and there was little space, but in the end he ended up in John and Mary’s flat to sort himself out.

It was the least of his worries, honestly. He knew it was silly, to worry about all of this when they had already come so far, but he felt terribly on edge and as if something was going to go wrong-- catastrophically so, and despite all the planning and care they had put in. He was later informed (by Molly, and he wondered just where she got her information) that it was simply wedding jitters, something that was perfectly normal.

Sherlock worked himself into a state-- though only once Victor wasn’t there to see him do so --and John was the one to talk him into a slightly more calm place, something that he was apparently rather good at. Something about being a doctor, he presumed-- and a married man, at that. Sherlock could respect first hand experience.

He then had to depart, however-- Sherlock didn’t bother to ask why --leaving Sherlock to smoke the other half of his packet of cigarettes while attempting to wear a hole in the floor by pacing, until Mary glanced in at him.

“Are you trying to wear a hole in our carpet? It’s new, you know.”

Sherlock frowned a little, shooting a glance over, though he did stop moving. To a degree-- he still bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. Mary smiled kindly, moving into the room a little. “Nervous?”

“You could say that,” he answered lowly, taking a drag on the cigarette. Mary eyed it; he was supposed to have quit. Again.

“John was too. Not that he’d like to admit that-- but he was. But you and Victor have known one another far longer than we had, and you’re still together, hm? You’ve been through a lot. Getting married isn’t going to ruin it.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but there was something like gratitude in his expression for the statement. “I know. I just… I suppose it’s Victor, more than anything else. This needs to go well for him.” There was something very important about his being able to cope with the day, and to have a good time, and that was without even thinking about the actual part where they would be wed.

She nodded. “He’s come a long way.” Though, she’d only heard the tales from Sherlock, he had told her rather a lot of it. “But whatever happens, I’m pretty sure that getting married to you will make the day wonderful one way or another.” Mary smiled at him again, reaching over to pat his shoulder lightly. “That’s the whole thing with loving one another, you know. Either way-- it’s going to be a good day, and you’ll be fine.”

At that point, her daughter started making noises of complaint at being left alone in the other room, and she excused herself quickly, leaving Sherlock to run through the order of events in his mind once more.

Victor was left to get ready with the supervision of Lestrade and Molly, while Mary was to arrive a little later; the two of them were to act as bridesmaids (though the term was mildly inaccurate) while John filled the role of best man.

There was a pang of sorrow at the knowledge that his sister would have been a bridesmaid, had she still been alive-- and would have probably been so very pleased over it all, and ecstatic to see her brother married to someone who cared about him as much as Sherlock did. It had been a long time ago now, of course, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t still sting sometimes; he missed her presence in his life. There was nothing to be done about it, save visit her grave the next time he was in Norfolk, along with the others close to it. One was supposed to have family at a wedding, and there was something undeniably sad about the fact there would be none of his present. He took some small comfort in the fact that they would have been proud of him-- for getting this far, for recovering, for finding Sherlock and staying with him for so long. Or he liked to think that they would have been proud, and he supposed that he wouldn’t know.

He found himself distracted and stopping what he was supposed to be doing as he thought about it, which didn’t go unnoticed. He was nudged lightly, someone sitting down near him and draping his jacket over the edge of the wheelchair.

“Weddings are supposed to be a family thing, aren’t they?” he said eventually, shooting a sidelong glance at the other man.

“Well-- they say that, yeah.” He paused a moment, before asking, “Are yours not coming?”

“Oh, well. I’m sure they would if they could.” He gave a halfhearted smile, shifting himself to pick up the jacket and brush it off lightly. Some things would have to wait until he had the prosthetics on-- mostly trousers --and it meant he was left in a state of incompletion and worry over just that. “But they all passed away years ago, so there’s not much to be done about it.”

Greg grimaced slightly, but nodded his understanding. “I reckon it’s more important that you’re surrounded by people that care about you. And they would have come if they were here, I’m sure.”

Victor gave a smile that was tainted just a little by melancholy, and wavered for a moment before fading. “Yeah. You’re right there. --Thanks.”

He was clapped on the shoulder lightly and there was a murmur of “No need to thank me,” before everyone continued going about their business and Victor tried to stop his hands trembling. Jitters, right? That was the long and the short of it.

* * *

There were just a few more hours that passed, before Victor had successfully gotten fully dressed and ended up quite embarrassed at the reaction of some to seeing him walk for the first time, though he found he couldn’t really resent it. He was proud of himself, and unabashedly so; it was something that he had every right to be very pleased over.

Those thoughts faded quickly all the same, when he was distracted by the journey to the venue, where Sherlock and their small collection of guests would already be. There was a part of him that felt almost as if it wasn’t real, that he was moving through it like a daydream; something he had thought of so often since proposing and never quite expected to come to pass, never expected to be able to do after his injury. It was both incredible and nerveracking to think of, and even more so to be in the situation.

Someone helped Victor out of the car once they were there, his balance a little iffy on the gravel drive, and his heart beating quickly in his chest. This was it-- this was the moment, all he had to do was make his way to Sherlock, and it would be easy from there. As it was, he would have some support while he walked, and as tiring as it was, it would be more than worth it.

There were a few encouraging words murmured to him just outside the place, ones that he smiled and nodded in response to but didn’t entirely register.

Panic seemed sure to set in when he heard music and went through those doors to the pain room, but it lasted just a moment-- Victor’s gaze landed on Sherlock quickly, and he found the other man was beaming at him, that mad moonshine bright smile that made some spot in the centre of Victor’s chest warm, and never failed to bring a reciprocation. Sure enough, it was enough to make him grin almost instantly, and was a reminder of precisely why he was here. He was to marry Sherlock, and stay with him for the rest of his life-- and keep what they had, something that was wonderful and had gotten him through the past months, had kept him alive when all had seemed purpose. It made him feel purposeful once again, and this time all he had to do was make it to the end of the room.

He reached out a hand to Sherlock when he was just a few metres away, still a little unsure of himself and of his balance, and using him as a gentle support. His smile had hardly faded, and this close he could see the adoration in Sherlock’s own.

Sherlock was proud-- exceedingly so, of Victor, of all he had achieved and all he would go on to do, of what he had been before and now and for the whole of his life. He was proud to have him at his side, and eager to have him there for the rest of the time that they were allowed. Among it all was the fact that Victor could walk, something that they had both thought entirely out of reach at one point or another.

“You’re amazing,” Sherlock murmured when Victor was close, quiet enough that no one besides him would hear. It caused a blush to colour Victor’s cheeks, and he squeezed his hand in quiet affirmation.

With that, the ceremony began and the both of them were expected to pay attention, something which for once, Sherlock was able to concentrate almost absolutely on.

The only distraction was the way that Victor shifted his weight from time to time, and he knew that was down to a little discomfort from standing and the energy it took to keep upright and steady even when on an easy surface like they were on now. It took five minutes of noticing it for Sherlock to close the space between them and wrap his arm lightly around the other man’s waist, allowing him to lean a portion of his weight on Sherlock instead.

Victor shot him a soft smile and leant on him as much as he could get away with without it being uncomfortable for either of them. He was able to make it through the remainder of the time that way, supported and safe.

It was emotional for the both of them; the words hit ever closer to their hearts than they might have if it was not for the experience of the past months, and made it an even more joyous event in the same moment. They knew even more firmly now that they would stay with one another through anything, and this was a mere affirmation of the fact. Not to say that it didn’t matter, or cause Victor to well up more than once.

And finally came the pronouncement, and Sherlock turned to wrap his arms properly around Victor, tugging him into a kiss that was tender and seemed to speak volumes about his affection and devotion, Victor beaming at him once more when he pulled back.

Sherlock huffed out a low laugh that seemed more surprised than anything else, and Victor had no words that carried enough weight for the moment. He kissed him again instead, Sherlock’s grip tightening around him for a moment, lifting him just an inch off the ground for a moment, while there were a few giggles from onlookers and an awful lot of noise that Sherlock presumed to be positive.

Victor was blushing again when he pulled away, much to his dismay; he appeared to have come to the realisation that there were other people here as well. People who were terribly pleased for them, at least-- that showed in the expressions, and god, Victor felt better than he had since all of this began.

* * *

The evening progressed smoothly, and the speeches amused Victor greatly once he had had champagne (though carefully not too much; he knew that it would hardly go well if he tried to drink and walk. It would be like drinking and driving, except with less potential to actually kill anyone apart from himself-- which was a somewhat more morbid thought than he had anticipated), and he was surrounded by people who cared about the pair of them. That seemed to be the most important part of all of this; the people here were the ones that really mattered in their life, and would hopefully continue to be around for as long as possible, and for as long as they were needed. He didn’t see that changing anytime soon, and it was something that was wonderful, honestly.

He was grateful for the presence of all of them, and most of all, for the presence of Sherlock in his life. He made a point of telling him that often throughout the evening, though after the first two times Sherlock rolled his eyes. That didn’t, of course, prevent Victor knowing that he would still appreciate the affirmation.

Though, what more affirmation than marriage he could hope for, Victor really didn’t know.

* * *

They had their first dance after the meal, and when Victor had donned his prosthetics again, having decided that he was determinedly not too tired to manage. It mattered more than he cared to say-- he did not need to say, honestly; Sherlock knew precisely how important it was.

They danced to music of Sherlock’s composition, a piece that had been started so many years ago and not entirely perfected until recently. It was a piece that Victor had heard in pieces over the years, and had been almost ever-present in the time they had been together, though he had never heard it in its entirety. Merely that fact was enough to make him smile widely once more when he heard it come on; he had not known what it would be up until that point, since Sherlock had been in charge of that part at his own insistence. It was something made just for him, and that made it more incredible than he thought he could properly articulate to Sherlock, as much as he might want to. He just hoped that he knew.

The moment was sweet, and intimate, Victor and Sherlock close, their movements careful and Sherlock’s consideration for what Victor could and could not do, as well as the depth of their love obvious to the onlookers. They kissed again, before Victor leant his head against Sherlock’s shoulder and more of his weight against his body, fingers tracing gentle patterns into the back of his jacket, and allowing himself the moment of increased vulnerability.

He saw why they said it was the best day of one’s life, now, with Sherlock there with him. With Sherlock as his husband, of all things-- the mere thought made him smile again, and lean to press a kiss to pale skin.

Victor danced until he couldn’t any more and had to retire to sitting, Sherlock accompanying him. Between the standing, dancing, seemingly endless congratulations, laughing and talking with the people who meant the most to him now, he was exhausted but elated to be able to have this day at all-- to be alive and well on this day, to have the most wonderful husband and the most brilliant friends to boot.

They watched the others for a little while, before Victor leant close enough to speak close to Sherlock’s ear, ensuring that he was heard and that their conversation was unheard. “I think we’re very lucky.”

Sherlock quirked a little half smile, giving Victor a sidelong glance. “We are.”

“Me especially, to have you,” he added, reaching out to brush his fingers lightly against Sherlock’s skin. “‘Til death do us part and all that.”

The other man hummed lowly, pressing faintly into the contact. “You’re not allowed to die any time soon, however.”

“You’re not either, so I suppose that’s fair.”

They shared another brief kiss, less chaste than the last, Victor slipping his hand into Sherlock’s hair and tugging him gently closer. He brushed a thumb faintly over Sherlock’s lower lip when he pulled back, and gave him an amused little smile. “I love you, you know.”

“What a surprise,” Sherlock murmured, rolling his eyes again. “You’re an idiot. But I love you too.”

And they had a life to live together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Done! Thank you, anyone whose actually read this whole thing.
> 
> There's another part planned with Vic and Sherls getting a kid, and stuff-- which might be done sometime in the near future, etc etc.
> 
> (And I can fulfil my liking for amputee!Vic fics. Oops.)


End file.
